


Pillow Talk

by lonelyprinces



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Beginnings, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Nightmares, Recovery, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Tender - Freeform, Young Love, begrudging romance, breakdowns, references to past sexual abuse, set after episode 24, singyue, yuesing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 09:59:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19332265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelyprinces/pseuds/lonelyprinces
Summary: One-shot, Yuesing. They both need time - to bicker, to grieve, and perhaps even to love.





	Pillow Talk

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just ... never gonna be over these two, am I?

A full day rarely passed without a fight of some sort - and usually Yue started it over something completely inconsequential. First it was Sing, getting his grubby little hands all over Yue-Lung’s teacups without washing them. Then it was how he managed to both leave the toilet seat up _and_ knock over a tray of Yue-Lung’s hair ties. Often it was over the copious amounts of takeout he would bring back to their quarters - the smell, the grease, the waste of silverware and napkins.

“I have a theory,” Sing said on one of their pizza nights, finishing off a slice while Yue sat at his cherrywood desk, a scowl firmly in place.

“Do you, now?”

“I think you feed off all this drama. All our little squabbles.”

“Of course not,” Yue-Lung sniffed, resting his upturned chin in the cup of his hand.

He looked nice this evening, Sing noticed vaguely, though this was of course nothing new. That cashmere sweater Yue wore had surely cost a fortune, and those soft white hands were those of someone with a ten-step skincare routine, or perhaps simply of one unaccustomed to manual labor. Everyone in Sing’s circle had a hardened look to them, by mere virtue of living life on the streets. Hell, even Ash, pretty as he’d been, had had his share of scuffed jaws and bruised knees. Yue-Lung, for all he’d been through, was of a different breed entirely.

Sing tore his gaze away from Yue-Lung, wiping his predictably-greasy fingers with a stack of napkins. “I mean,” he continued, searching for the lost thread of his argument, “Who gets mad about pizza, anyway? The _smell_ , no less? The deliciously cheesy smell? Does wonders for masking your boozy breath, at least.”

Yue-Lung turned in his chair to face Sing head-on, his mouth a cruel red slant. “You’re lucky I let you stay here, Sing,” he said, his voice considerably lower than it had been before. “That you aren’t still living out of that hovel of yours. I’d watch your mouth before that privilege is taken away.”

“Yes, my lord,” Sing muttered under his breath. _You wouldn’t get rid of me, not really. You’d have nothing left to whine about._

And yet, deep down, Sing wasn’t so sure.

* * *

A week passed. Sing and Yue-Lung didn’t see much of each other; most of Sing’s time was spent running messages between a number of rival gangs. As for the young lord, well, he wasn’t in the mood to let Sing enter his quarters, let alone sit down and strategize with him. Whatever. The storm would pass, as it always did.

On one of those evenings, Sing returned after dinner with Nadia to find a slant of gold light under Yue-Lung’s door. It wasn’t late, but Yue had usually turned in by this time. Sing knocked at the door, without entirely knowing why.

Yue-Lung answered, dressed in a loose linen shirt and pants, his hair tied back messily for sleep. His face looked soft in the low light, as though he’d washed away the sharp angles of makeup. Sing realized he hadn't been aware that Yue wore cosmetics - not until he’d seen his face without them. He didn’t just look softer, but younger, too. Not the courtesan or the dragon lady or the feudal lord, but the sixteen-year-old boy he truly was.

“Sing?” Yue asked, brows furrowed delicately.

“I, uh. Saw you were up.”

“Yes,” Yue said simply, though the tone was not unkind. “And where were you?”

“With Nadia. You knew her brother. Shorter.”

“Oh.” Yue-Lung’s brows shot up with genuine surprise. “How was everything? I forgot you knew him,” he added as an afterthought.

Sing felt startled, angry tears prick at his eyes.

“Yeah. He was pretty much my best friend. Well, as much a best friend as you can be in a gang like that. I … I wanted to be just like him.” Sing cleared his throat roughly. “And, well, now I guess I am, huh?”

Silence stretched, loud and miserable.

“Sing,” Yue-Lung said quietly, opening the door a little wider. “Come in, will you?”

“Mm-hm.” Sing moved robotically to the sofa in the middle of the room, shoving aside some of the gold-embroidered pillows and sitting down. Yue-Lung remained standing, his face a pale oval in the dim light.

“Fuck,” Sing said suddenly, hands clenching into fists as his eyes blurred with tears. “I don’t know where this is coming from.”

“It’s not a mystery,” Yue-Lung said bluntly. “You were friends with both Ash and Shorter, weren’t you?” He took a seat on the large ottoman just before the sofa. “I can’t imagine this has been easy.”

Sing nodded, burying his face in his hands. “Some days it’s like I have no one.”

“That’s not true,” Yue-Lung said sternly. “You make friends easily, far more than I ever could. I’m sure there is someone who would comfort you.”

Sing lifted his head, turning his watery gaze to Yue-Lung’s clear one. All the same, the older boy’s features were slack in a way that suggested sympathy.

“I guess so,” Sing finally said. “I don’t know, I guess I just need time. To grieve.”

“Believe me, I understand.” Yue wrapped his arms around his torso, loosely hugging himself. Sing rubbed his eyes wearily, blinking the last of the tears away.

They sat in thoughtful silence for what might have been either five minutes or fifty, Sing wasn’t entirely sure. With a sudden burst of resolve he cleared his throat and stood up to go.

“What are you doing?” Yue-Lung asked with a frown.

“It’s late.” _Gotta get back to that hovel of mine._

“Exactly. Stay here.”

“What? No, it’s fine, I’ll get out of your hair—”

“Sing, you idiot.”

“I’m used to the streets like this.”

“Not at this hour, with the Vietnamese lurking about. Not in … your current state.”

“Hm.” Sing considered. “Yeah, okay. I guess you’re right.” He made towards the door again.

“Sing!” Yue-Lung said irritably. “What on earth are you doing?”

“My stuff’s all set up in the guest room …?”

“Stay _here_ ,” Yue said, sounding momentarily taken aback by his own words. “There’s room on my bed for at least four people, and God knows it’s much more comfortable than … whatever setup you’ve got going on downstairs.”

“Gee, thanks,” Sing said, letting out a hiccuping laugh. “But no, really. Thank you.” A pause. “I might knock over something in the bathroom, though, or get dirt all over your four hundred thread-count sheets.”

“Shut up,” Yue grumbled, the corner of his mouth turned ever-so-slightly upward. “Stay on your side, and I might just let you leave with your head tomorrow morning.”

_Yes, my lord._

* * *

Somewhere along the way, it became easier for Sing to share Yue-Lung’s bed, rather than head downstairs to his own. Especially after they’d been watching a movie or having a late-night conversation and were both too exhausted to move. Yue-Lung threw the occasional fit, of course, for posterity’s sake, but the both of them were typically fast asleep within five minutes of hitting the sheets. Sing didn’t snore, thank God. Yue woke up each morning with drool on his pillow and a bedhead, much to Sing’s delight.

On one of these uncharacteristically early mornings, Yue-Lung woke to find Sing lying across from him, gazing with a sort of misty look in his eyes.

“What are you staring at?” Yue said groggily, closing his eyes against the bright streaks of sun coming in through the blinds.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” Sing said reverently.

Yue blinked several times, once even shaking his head vigorously to be sure he’d heard right. After this ritual, he turned to Sing and found the boy to be, again, fast asleep, hands curled into gentle fists on his pillow.

“Sing?” Yue-Lung said faintly.

The boy in question, however, did not stir. In fact, it seemed as though he hadn’t done so for a long time.

* * *

One night (after, Yue had to admit, a glass too many of champagne), they curled in bed together, hearts thrumming in their chests. Yue, finding his throat begin to constrict, let out a sort of choked sound.

“Hey,” Sing said, cupping his face. “You okay?”

“How much did Blanca tell you about my past, anyway?” Yue asked, into the velvety black of the room. Light from the open window - a silvery slant of moon - caught his face at a dizzying angle.

“I, uh … most of it was about your mother, and about those worthless brothers of yours. I don’t know how much even _he_ knew, so there wasn’t much for him to say to me. It’s not my business, anyway.”

One, two, three seconds of quiet.

“Did he tell you about how my brothers used to rape me?”

Sing felt the floor drop out from under him.

“No,” Sing said cautiously. “He didn’t ever mention that.”

“First when I was thirteen. When I really started looking like my mother. There was one night, after a party, where they all took their turns with me.”

Sing felt a sickening lump rise in his throat. Yue’s eyes were seeing something else entirely, gleaming like those of cornered prey.

“I don’t know why they kept me alive. Sometimes I wish they’d just killed me and been done with it.”

Yue buried his face in the pillow, his entire body convulsing with sobs.

“Yue. Yue, oh my God.” Sing reached out a hand, but paused before touching. “Hey. Is this okay?”

Yue-Lung nodded dully, shoving his head up against Sing’s chest while the younger boy pulled him into a tight hug. Neither of them moved for some time, save for the soft shaking of Yue’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Yue said after awhile, his voice muffled. “I’ve been drinking too much, haven’t I?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Sing said, rubbing at those hunched shoulders, that tired back. Sniffles eventually gave way to the heavy breaths of sleep. Even buried under the blankets, the room felt so cold, save for the tiny, warm body pressed up against his, still at last.

* * *

 Nights like those were the first of many, for both of them. Sometimes it was Sing, caught up in his thoughts of Shorter and Ash and even Lao, forgetting for a moment there was anyone left. Other nights it was Yue, seemingly fine one moment and then hunched over the nearest surface - the desk or the bathtub or the banister - clutching the surface so hard his knuckles grew white.

On nights like those, one was never far away from the other. Yue would press a hand to Sing’s forehead until he cooled down, sometimes even rub his shoulders until his heart stopped beating so fast (the latter rarely worked, and usually only resulted in Sing’s face flaming red, heart hammering more quickly than ever). Sing would brush his share of hair during this time, and even learned how to braid it for special occasions, noting the way Yue relaxed into the touch.

Nights like those, once they were both exhausted with crying, they would order pizza up to their room, to hell with the grease and the mess. Yue would answer the door, his hair a nest of barrettes and decorative combs, while Sing chuckled good-naturedly from offstage, a knot of warmth in his belly. They both would eat their fair share - and as months passed, and Sing grew taller, broader, this would be followed by Yue curling into the younger man’s lap, laughing luxuriously against Sing’s rush of kisses.

A full day rarely passed without mellow, whispered words, often to this effect:

“I love you.”

“I adore you.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m here.”

_“I’m here.”_

And then, naturally, the occasional peevish comment:

“Cut it out.”

“You’re messing up my hair.”

“You really are annoying, aren’t you?”

But these last few, only for good measure.


End file.
